


Drunk and Apollo

by shannonissatan



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gavroche's POV, Gen, M/M, i havent read the book dont yell at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonissatan/pseuds/shannonissatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU ficlet thing in which Grantaire's depressed and living with Gavroche and suddenly a thing happens involving Enj.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk and Apollo

I wanted to yell at him to go play some depressing song on his old acoustic and wallow in his own self hatred because _I just wanted to fucking sleep._ But I couldn't. Because I knew he would do it. I knew he'd drown himself in the bottle and stay up drunk, then sleep it off all day and repeat the cycle over again. He'd take a razor to his skin and make macabre art on the pale canvas. His creation would last forever, a reminder of my ignorance. I have to take care of him. For all of the times he's sacrificed himself for his friends, his lovers, and for _me,_ I have to give him this.

 

So I listen. I can barely hear what he's saying, thanks to the half bottle of whiskey he's already downed, but I still try. From what I can gather, it's something about a pain in his chest that is there but isn't really, and I tell him it's probably the stupidly impossible growth of scar tissue inside him rubbing against his heart. He says maybe, probably, definitely not. He says it's _that_ hurt.

 

I sigh. We've talked about this before; about how he's pining over a nonexistent memory. A horrific pain and looking over. A warm hand in his. A man with long blond curls (“Men don't wear their hair like that.” “He does—did—fuck,” followed by a swig of whatever bottle was in his hand at the time.) and a red jacket. How he loves this man, his Apollo, who probably isn't even real, just a creation stemming from too many cigarettes and too much alcohol. It's pathetic, really, but indulging him can't hurt.

 

He's still talking when it happens—when I see a flash of red out the window. A scarlet windbreaker covers long blond curls, and I think it's a woman until I see the face. He's chasing after his umbrella, ultimately giving up by the window of the shabby little cottage this drunken, depressed man and I call home.

 

The one outside knocks on the door, but mine doesn't stir from where he's gone to refresh his drink. I get up and answer the call, and even I am struck by a sort of déjà vu. I recognize this man, although I know not where from. I invite him in from the cold and rain, and he gladly accepts, thanking me in an unbreaking stream. I find his voice to be strong and leading, and I feel as though I should be a child instead of a teenager, having him as my idol and role model. It's foreign to me, this feeling, but what I witness next seems to be impossible.

 

My beloved drunk stumbles out from the hallway, a freshly opened bottle in his grasp. The moment their eyes lock, it drops. My drunk becomes sober for the first time I've seen, and his face is blank before a smile crosses it, broad and true.

 

It's a second before I realize—this man who had saved me in my darkest time has finally gotten his reward. My drunk has found his Apollo.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i got pissed off at my dad and wrote the first sentence and it sort of spiralled out of control


End file.
